Snuff
by IMightBeWriter
Summary: A small drabble about the night of Regulus Black's sixteenth birthday, and more importantly, his initiation into the Death Eaters. Rated M for mature themes


**Author's Note:** For those of you who follow me, I know I haven't updated any of my other stories in a long time, and I apologize for keeping you all waiting for so long. I'm sure I'll get to them eventually, but unfortunately, my muse is currently sucked into two things. One; a book that I'm working on at the moment. And Two; this particular character right here- Regulus Black. I roleplayed him for a little while, and have had my variation of who he was building in the back of my mind for quite some time now. I'd like to write more stories centered around him, because he's one of my favorite HP characters and I find that he's a bit overlooked even for what he tried to do in the end. So this drabble is more of a stepping stone to test the waters a bit. As always, reviews are love and love equals endless amounts of virtual affection in the form of updates/new stories of this verse. Hopefully, I can do Regulus' character justice, seeing as we don't really know all that much about him, while adding my own twists to him.

* * *

_Bury all your secrets in my skin,_  
_Come away with innocence and leave with my sins,_  
_The air around me still feels like a cage,_  
_And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again._

* * *

When most feel as if they are under pressure, they often develop the habit of feeling crammed; describing the atmosphere around them as hot and stuffy, even humid at times.

Regulus didn't agree with that description, nor did he find any truth behind it.

This was it. This was the moment he'd been waiting for his whole life, it seemed. December 2nd. His sixteenth birthday. About to receive the greatest gift he could ever be given.

But why did it feel so bloody _cold_?

The weight on his shoulders was threatening to crush him as he stood amongst those who could have previously only be seen in the newspaper clippings tacked on the walls of his bedroom. He should have been eager. He should have been elated that he was finally getting his chance. Merlin knew his parents were; or they were as eager and elated as Walburga and Orion Black were capable of being, at the very least.

But the room was dark. There was a bitter chill in the air that breached through fabric, skin, and bone. It nestled down into his very core. Sent icy shocks of cold zipping through his veins. He was half-certain that his blood would turn into ice, at this rate.

It felt as if the very room was nothing more than a chamber, hooked up with vacuums that were intent on sucking all of the happiness and life out of his body. All of the hatred, all of the despair, it was heavy. It was painful. It made him feel miserable to the point of physical inexplicable pain.

He didn't understand. It was meant to be the single most pivotal moment of his life. It wasn't supposed to feel like **_this_**.

* * *

_So if you love me let me go,_  
_And run away before I know,_  
_My heart is just too dark to care,_  
_I can't destroy what isn't there._

* * *

He recognized the girl almost immediately. She was a year behind him at Hogwarts. Fifteen years old? Maybe fourteen even? He wasn't sure, but she might have been sorted into Ravenclaw— Hufflepuff?

But he had to remind himself that her House did not matter. Her age did not matter. Her name — which for the life of him, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember — was just as insignificant and meaningless as that of her face to the crowd of witches and wizards encircling her.

She didn't look the same as he recalled from when they were at school. She was a far lot skinnier than the once shapely, fit Quidditch player residing in the back of his mind. She was beyond filthy as well. Dirt was caked on her skin, clotted in hair that had once been shiny and clean, cascading in dark brown ringlets of curls down her back. Bits of dried over red crust resided underneath her runny nose, on the numerous cuts and gashes covering every inch of raw abused skin that showed.

She was crying, sobbing, begging even. "_Please, please… Just let me go."_

But her pleas were met with nothing short of callous jeers and cold heartless laughter from those around him; minus the handful that looked more as if she was the most grotesque sort of creature they'd ever seen— his mother and father included.

However, Regulus didn't look at her and laugh at her misfortune. Regulus didn't stare at her as if she disgusted him. As a matter of fact, after a while, Regulus didn't look at her at all.

* * *

_Deliver me into my fate,_  
_If I'm alone I can not hate,_  
_I don't deserve to have you,_  
_Oh, my smile was taken long ago,_  
_If I can change I hope I never know._

* * *

It was supposed to be an easy task. She was a filthy Mudblood, after all.

"You will be doing all of us a favor by getting rid of her", Walburga had said hours beforehand in that usual cold-as-stone tone of hers. The same one that he was subconsciously repeating in his mind as he stepped into the heart of the circle.

He swallowed thickly, in a weak attempt to push passed the lump growing steadily in the back of his throat.

A familiar cackle of excitement broke free from the eager Bellatrix, high and maniac, but it sounded a million miles away to him. Somewhere off in the far distance, as opposed to being merely a foot or so behind him.

He raised his wand, pointing it directly at the curled up emaciated form of the girl.

He wished he could recall what her name was.

Bright, translucent blue eyes stared down at the young Muggle-born witch, almost as if they were transfixed. She was beyond terrified, but still met his gaze head on. He admired that. He admired that she wasn't about to die without a lick of pride to her— Just as he often admired every time she excelled out on the Quidditch pitch.

"I'm so—" The words died off before they could reach his tongue. His hand was becoming so sweaty that he was finding it difficult to keep a proper grip on his wand.

He wished she wouldn't have met his eyes— the fear, the panic, the feeling of being trapped all stabbing him directly into the chest. Fear. Panic. Trapped. _"You know how that feels, don't you, Regulus?"_

"Well?" Bellatrix all but barked out, unable to contain her impatience on what would no doubt be the highlight of her day. Possibly week. "What are you waiting for then? Kill her! Kill the filthy mudblood!"

Regulus closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as the annoyance and frustration spiked up— because it was supposed to be easy and it wasn't. It wasn't easy at all. Why didn't anyone get that it **_wasn't fucking easy_** for him?

_Because they don't care. They never have cared. They never will care.  
_

The thought alone was enough for the grip on his wand to tighten. Enough for him to look down at the trembling girl in front of him. Enough for him to gather up every last ounce of anger and pain that had been building up over years.

With one last thought in his mind, a single name that pushed him clear over the edge— _**Sirius**_ — Regulus Black used all of it; every last bit of disdain and hatred he possessed for the world around him.

And then—

"Avada Kedavra!"

A burst of bright eery green light, and it was all over.

* * *

_I still press your letters to my lips,_  
_And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss,_  
_I couldn't face a life without your light,_  
_But all of that was ripped apart when you refused to fight._

* * *

It didn't hit him until later on that night, while he was lying in bed, staring at the intricate black shape that was now inked into the pale skin of his right forearm.

It hit him, and it hit him **_hard_**.

Her name was Nancy Smethwyck.

She was a fifth year Ravenclaw who played Keeper on the Quidditch team.

She'd helped him with his Ancient Runes homework just last week.

They sat together in Potions sometimes— because she was taking some classes a year higher than her grade level.

Her little brother's name was Adrian, and she had a pet cat by the name of Cassius.

She'd stood up for him once against Lucius Malfoy.

And up until this very moment, he had even went as far as to begin to consider her a _friend_.

_"You will be doing all of us a favor by getting rid of her..."_

He didn't think about it too much after that, because every time he did, his eyes would start to burn and he'd find himself choking on air, to the point where his stomach would twist so violently that he'd have to resist the urge vomit and sometimes that didn't even work.

But still, the familiar taste of bile lingered in his mouth during the beginning of the next school semester, when the first years were being sorted into their Houses.

Adrian Smethwyck was sorted into Ravenclaw.

His sister would've been proud of him.

* * *

_I only wish you weren't my friend,_  
_Then I could hurt you in the end,_  
_I never claimed to be a saint,_  
_Oh, my own was banished long ago,_  
_It took the death of hope to let you go._


End file.
